Page 47 of Silent Past

"There's something else," Finn said, watching Sheila's reflection ghost across the window glass. "Whoever does this... they'll have to understand his mindset. Really understand it. He doesn't see himself as a killer."

"He's a curator," Sheila finished. "Preserving minds he thinks are worthy, using methods he learned from that first frozen body." She turned from the window, her face caught between shadow and light. "Our candidate will need to share his passion for preservation. If he reaches out by phone, as he's done so far, his mark will have to convince him they understand the importance of what he's doing."

The implications hung in the air between them like smoke—they would be asking someone to walk into darkness, to dance with a killer who saw murder as sacred duty. The room felt smaller suddenly, pressed in by the weight of what they were planning.

"If this goes wrong..." Finn let the thought trail off, but Sheila's eyes met his with familiar determination.

"If we do nothing, more bodies will show up in those caves. More minds 'preserved' in chambers of ice and stone." Her voice carried the steel edge he recognized from her fighting days. "At least this way, we choose the ground."

Finn leaned against his desk, arms crossed, a familiar crease of worry between his eyes.

"We'd need someone who could convince him," he said. "Someone who understands both academic research and law enforcement procedure. That's a narrow field."

Sheila stood before the evidence board, studying the faces of Whitman's victims.

"I could do it," she said quietly.

The words landed between them like stones in still water. Finn's posture shifted, tension gathering in his shoulders. "No."

"Think about it." She turned to face him, her body outlined against the photos of the dead. "I'm a quick study. Whatever academic jargon I need to know, I can figure it out."

"Sheila—"

"And I've got law enforcement training. Combat experience. If something goes wrong—"

"If something goes wrong, you'll end up like them." He gestured toward the board, toward faces forever frozen in chambers of ice and stone. "You're not invincible, Sheila."

Silence stretched between them, thick with unspoken fears. Outside, a siren wailed in the distance—a reminder of the world they were sworn to protect. Sheila moved to the window, watching morning traffic flow through Coldwater's streets like a river of normality they couldn't quite touch.

"Someone has to stop him," she said finally, her voice carrying the weight of every victim they'd failed to save. "And I won't ask anyone else to take risks I'm not willing to take myself."

"You're the sheriff," Finn countered, but his tone had softened. "This department needs you. Star needs you."

"Star needs to live in a world where killers like Whitman can't just keep taking people." She turned back to him. "I can do this, Finn. I can make him believe I understand his mission. Besides, who else is going to do it?"

Finn moved slowly away from his desk, his shadow stretching across crime scene photos like a man testing ice over deep water. The office hummed with early morning quiet, broken only by the distant sound of deputies arriving for their shift, unaware of the weight of decisions being made in this sunlit room.

"Even putting aside my concerns for your safety," Finn said, "there are other problems."

"Such as?"

"The fake I.D. our killer created—that was well done. This guy's an expert in his field, so he's going to be familiar with his peers. If we try to create an academic profile out of nowhere, he'll sniff it out."

Sheila was silent for a few moments. He had a point.

"I get the impression you have a better idea," Sheila said.

"What about James Cooper?" he said finally, his voice carrying the careful tone of someone offering an alternative to catastrophe. "Mitchell's research assistant."

Sheila turned from the window, her face caught between shadow and light. "Cooper?"

"Think about it. He knows Mitchell's work intimately—the methodology, the terminology. He could speak about preservation techniques in a way that would feel authentic to Whitman. And more than likely, he's already on Whitman's radar."

Sheila's eyes drifted to Mitchell's photo on the evidence board. "Cooper's already part of the academic world. His credentials would hold up to scrutiny."

"More than that." Finn moved to join her at the board, their shadows merging across faces of the dead. "If he made a public statement about continuing Mitchell's work, about not letting her death be in vain..." He let the implication hang in the air between them.

"He'd be the perfect target," Sheila finished softly. "Young, passionate, already connected to one of Whitman's victims. Determined to carry on research that Whitman considers sacred."

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